


Hurting From Someone Else’s Scars

by fishfingersandjellybabies



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Super Sons (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-05-19 19:10:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14879546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishfingersandjellybabies/pseuds/fishfingersandjellybabies
Summary: He wasn’t there. He didn’t know him then. But Damian’s death still haunted him all the same.





	Hurting From Someone Else’s Scars

**Author's Note:**

> Jon and Damian are in their late twenties. Bruce was out buying himself ice cream in the middle of the night because he’s a simple old man who just wants to be fat.

Bruce found him on his sofa. Lying on his back, arm across his eyes.

In his boxers.

He stood in the foyer of his home for a moment, just holding the brown paper bag. Then he frowned.

“Jon.”

The man in question jumped in surprise, stumbling to his feet, hastily grabbing a nearby blanket to cover himself. He smiled awkwardly. Bruce just raised an eyebrow.

“…Shouldn’t you be…upstairs?” He deadpanned. “I mean, I am attempting to remain as far away from you and my son’s relationship as I can, but when you’re in my parlor half-naked, and _without_ said son of mine…” He glanced towards the stairs. “Did you two have a fight? Because if you did, you should probably just go home. He tends to hold his grudges overnight.”

“What?” Jon blinked, then raised his hand to wave Bruce off. The blanket began to slip down his waist and he quickly scrambled to pull it back up. “No, no, no fight. I just…”

Bruce waited.

“I…I’m having a crisis.” Jon sighed in defeat. “And I…I don’t want to bother Damian with it.”

“Well.” Bruce exhaled himself. “I don’t have the best past with romantic relationships, but…you’re supposed to be able to lean on your significant other in a time of crisis. And Damian wouldn’t be bothered, I assure you.”

“Not bothered, but, like…” Jon looked around, like the words he wanted were sitting in front of him. “…It’s _about_ him.”

Bruce curiosity was piqued now. “What?”

“I…” Jon seemed to shrink in on himself in some embarrassment. Fiddled with the blanket, pulled it up over his shoulders and cocooned himself. “It’s just…his scars.” Then a whisper. “I…I can’t look at his scars.”

Ah.

“At least. Not his _death_ scar.” Jon looked away. “It just…hurts. And I know it shouldn’t, because I wasn’t there. I didn’t know him when he died.” He closed his eyes, squeezed them shut. Clutched at the blanket. “But it’s still proof that he did. Proof that there was a time he wasn’t in the world because someone violently murdered him. And that…that’s not _fair_ , that someone did that to him.”

“…The world isn’t fair, son.” Bruce replied gently. “You’ve known that for a long time.”

“I know.” Jon nodded. Didn’t reopen his eyes, but swallowed the lump in his throat. “I know, Bruce.”

“That’s not to say I don’t _understand_ , though. I do. His family and I similar…issues.” Bruce hummed. “He’s…been through a lot.”

Jon snorted in agreement. “That’s an understatement.”

“That’s why I’m glad he has you.” Bruce admitted. Jon glanced up at him. “The pain of his life follows him everywhere. Every day. But you appear to…ease that hurt for him. And I’m so glad.”

Jon blinked, and let a small smile fall onto his face.

“And it’d kill him to see you upset about this, about something related to him.” Bruce continued. The smile dropped from Jon’s cheeks. “So, if I may make a suggestion?”

“Sure.”

“Talk to him about this.” Bruce said simply. “Come to a mutual solution. Don’t hide your feelings from him. He’ll sense something is wrong, and internalize it as something he _did_.” He paused, tilted his head. “Was he sleeping when you left the room?”

“Yeah.”

“No, he wasn’t. He heard you leave.” Bruce corrected. “And right now, he’s up there blaming himself for doing something to upset you.”

“But he _didn’t_ -”

“If I were you, I’d just go back upstairs.” Bruce cut off quietly. “And remind yourself that despite the past, he’s here now. Lay with him, hold him as tight as you can, and remind yourself that he’s real, _now_. And that what’s happened to him in the past doesn’t matter. Not tonight.”

Bruce turned away, then. Taking his paper bag into the kitchen. Jon trailed him into the foyer, then watched from afar. He wondered, absently, how many times Damian’s family had done that. How many times they came home from a long night, and just held their brother. Held their son and squeezed their love and adoration (and apologies) into him as hard as they could.

He waited until Bruce disappeared, waited another minute more, then sighed, kept hold of the blanket around his person, and made his way back up the stairs.

The hallways were silent, though he sensed dear old Alfred the cat roaming them nearby, watching for any threats against his favorite charge (and his clumsy boyfriend, who tries – _really_ – to not step on his toes so much).

He paused at the door, slowly put his hand on the knob. Didn’t know why, knew Bruce was probably right. That Damian was awake, panicking, blaming himself, but most of all – waiting desperately for Jon to come back.

Softly, he opened the door. Damian was lying in the center of the bed on his stomach, arms under the pillows. His hair was a comfortable mess, and his face was tilted towards the door.

The scar down his naked spine practically glowed in the darkness.

It was a starburst in shape, perpetually reliving the moment the tip of a sword burst through it over a decade ago. Faded, with so many more scars overtop of it. But always there, always bright. Always mocking them.

Always mocking _him_.

He inhaled sharply, felt that painful tightness in his chest as he walked forward.

 _He’s here now._ He reminded himself of Bruce’s words. _The past doesn’t matter. Not tonight._

He stood next to the bed for a moment, before dropping the blanket and plopping down on the side of the mattress, immediately reaching out to run his fingers through Damian’s hair.

Damian’s eyes slowly flickered open before Jon’s hand ever touched him. The corner of his mouth twitched upwards as he hummed, “You came back?”

“To you?” Jon snorted. And it was corny, but he meant every syllable. “Always.”

That ghost of a smile disappeared instantly. “Why’d…where’d you go?”

“Downstairs.” Jon whispered. “Just thinking about something.”

“And what was that something?” Damian slurred.

“You.” Jon answered honestly. That scar was in the corner of his eye, practically yelling at him. _Look at me! Look at me!_

He didn’t. He kept his focus on Damian’s face. On his sleep-tussled hair, and his bleary sea foam green eyes. On the furrow of his dark brows as he mumbled: “Me?”

“Mhm.”

“What _about_ me?”

“Everything.” Jon shrugged, placing his hand on the other side of Damian’s back. He leaned down and kissed Damian’s cheek, then his jaw. The back of his neck, his bare shoulder. He hesitated there, closed his eyes as he kept his lips pressed to his skin, then brushed his lips towards his spine, and started a long, slow line of kisses down it.

Damian just shifted to watch him curiously, breathe almost carefully. Almost not breathe at all.

Jon felt the texture of Damian’s skin change under his mouth. Soft and velvety from fine hairs, freckles and moles, to smooth and raised of aged scar tissue.

And again he stopped. Left his lips on the center of that star he hated so much. Pulled his hands in to hold Damian’s sides, and gently stroke that soft skin again.

“...Jonathan?”

“…I’m so glad you’re here, Damian.” He breathed into Damian’s skin. Into that scar, into that memory that wasn’t his, into that fear and pain he had every time he saw it.

Damian didn’t respond at first. Just laid in silence, and let Jon worship him. After a few moments, he twisted slightly, and pulled his arm out from under the pillow, holding it out to him.

“Come back to bed, Beloved.”

Jon nodded silently, and left one more kiss to Damian’s death mark. He sat up, but just enough to twist his legs into bed. As he shifted, and Damian turned more towards him, he caught glimpse of the matching pale explosion on Damian’s chest. The entrance wound. Bright and terrible, just like the one on his back.

He didn’t dwell on that one, though. Would another day, surely. Probably in the morning, as they got dressed, but not now. Not tonight. Just dragged Damian against his chest as soon as he could. Held him as tight as he held anyone, any _thing_ , that ever mattered to him.

Damian grunted slightly, at the pressure against his ribs, but didn’t say anything. Merely reciprocated with an arm across Jon’s hip, and fingers gently stroking at his back.

“I’m sorry.” Damian whispered after a moment, kissing underneath Jon’s jaw in apology. Jon could have smacked him for it, but squeezed him tighter instead. “For whatever I did to upset you.”

Jon flashed a grin, just for himself. For all their angst and yelling and distance, Bruce still knew his son best, apparently.

“You didn’t do anything. I’m just…being dumb.” He sighed, let his hand wander back down Damian’s spine, to linger in the middle of that scar. He found himself wondering what it felt like, to be stabbed so thoroughly. Wondered if he’d ever ask Damian one day. Wondered if he actually even wanted to know. “I’m sorry I woke you. Go back to sleep.”

“Only if you stay.” Damian whispered. Jon smiled, and shifted his head downwards. Pressed their noses together, twisted his legs in between Damian’s.

“You’re stuck with me for the rest of tonight.” Jon swore. “And probably the rest of forever too, if I’m honest.”

Damian’s own smile was sleepy as he let his eyes fall contently closed.

But there was a frown on Jon’s face now, as he barely breathed: “Just promise you’ll stay too.”

Because no, Bruce was right. The past, right now, didn’t matter. But the future did. And Jon didn’t know what he’d do if he lost Damian. Once, ever. If he died or was killed. He just didn’t know what he’d do. He didn’t know what he’d become, if he ever lost Damian.

Damian stirred, mumbled, “Wha…?”

“I said goodnight, I love you.” Jon amended, kissing the skin under Damian’s eye. Damian merely pushed closer, keeping their faces centimeters apart.

“Oh, okay.” Damian hummed. “Good.”

Damian quickly dozed off, then, leaving Jon watching him for a few minutes. He waited until Damian’s fingers stopped stroking his side, before kissing Damian’s cheek one more time and letting his eyes close too, lashes brushing against Damian’s skin.

No, he didn’t know what he’d do if he ever lost Damian. But as he clutched at that starburst on his lover’s back, he decided – swore, if only to himself – that he would never, ever find out.


End file.
